


The Many Faces of Rudiger Smoot

by jacksgreysays (jacksgreyson), jacksgreyson



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 19:24:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8502382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksgreyson/pseuds/jacksgreysays, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksgreyson/pseuds/jacksgreyson
Summary: Rudiger Smoot was a dare, a prank, a friendship. A secret, hidden tie between the three of them.(Loosely related ficlets revolving around the MIT-trio originally posted on tumblr)





	1. Chapter 1

(“I will never live this down, will I?” Harold asks, brow furrowing in mild displeasure.

“Never, my friend,” answers Nathan, laughter clear in his tone.

Arthur, with a sly smile of his own, adds, “Live it down? Why would you ever want to do that?”)

* * *

There is a man named Rudiger Smoot.

(There is no man named Rudiger Smoot)

He has a social security number, a house, a job, a bank account. Just like any other average person.

(Except for how he’s not)

But he has a minimal digital footprint, no pictures, and no relatives.

(Because he’s not real)

Whether or not there is a man named Rudiger Smoot doesn’t matter. Whoever or whatever Rudiger Smoot may be, his number has come up.

* * *

The problem with humans is that they want to anthropomorphize everything. Their brains are wired to see faces where there are none. Since the beginning, fire has been described as eating and dancing and dying. Even intangible ideas–justice, truth, luck–they are spoken in human terms: justice is blind, truth has a voice, Lady Luck.

The very idea of gods is simply a byproduct of that–lightning strikes and mankind said it was God’s wrath, the seasons change and it is the result of disagreements between gods. The world translated into human terms–emotions and thoughts and behaviors–even though it very clearly is not.

The same applies even now–when machines are faulty, they are though to be acting up. As if a machine, built and programmed by humans, were in fact human itself.

The Machine can learn, The Machine protects, The Machine is a young god growing into its own power.

Samaritan is sleeping, Samaritan can decide, Samaritan is a new god, ready to go to war against the old.

Both are just strings of code, data and electricity bouncing back and forth across wires and satellites like signals in the brain traveling through neurons in the human body. Like humans, but not. Gods, only because that has always been the way of humanity–to make sense of the world around them by comparing it to themselves.

* * *

Rudiger Smoot was a dare, a prank. A trio of boys making something out of nothing. Making a person out of nothing.

Eventually, the boys moved on to other things–business ventures and tricky bits of coding and national security–but still Rudiger Smoot remained.

Rudiger Smoot has always been, if not a man, then a friendship. A secret, hidden tie between the three of them.

The Machine and Samaritan are not human–they are not gods or children–but they are successors to their creators.

Heirs to Rudiger Smoot.


	2. (boys, kings, gods)

**_ (the boys who would be king) _ **

Nathan wears his charisma like a crown, a golden, gleaming, glory bestowed upon him from birth. The weight of it upon his head, so heavy, pushing down on him like guilt. He is obsolete, like the steady impotence of monarchies; only a symbol of progress and technology, not actuality.

Harold covers himself in secrets and half truths, a cloak to hide or a cape to attract, but always the shape beneath obscured. His words are a defense mechanism as varying and adaptable as the plumage on birds. A shield, a cage, trapped in his own tangled creation until one day it strangles the life out of him.

Arthur wields his skills like a scepter–impressive and imposing, but easily discarded if necessary. His skills become a jester’s rod instead, or an elderly man’s cane, always present but no longer seen for the truth. He can step away from it, enjoy the world in a way that he could not if he held on, and yet just as easily pick it up and return.

_** (the kings who created gods) ** _

Nathan would be remembered as a shooting star. Bright and inspirational, leading IFT into the 21st century, and dragging the rest of the industry with it. But despite the name, shooting stars are meteors, crashing into Earth. The sudden decline of productivity, the scandal of divorce and alcoholism, and finally death. Nathan was a legend, a rise and a fall, a fiery crash leaving behind the molten remains of a star.

No one remembers Harold, not completely, not as he truly is. They remember pieces of him–a pair of blue eyes behind glasses, a fondness for books, impeccable fashion sense–only because that is all he lets people know. History will not remember any of his names, not even in footnotes, but time is malleable, his will has already shaped the future.

Arthur forgets; his memories slipping away like grains of sand in an hour glass, thoughts drifting in and out like the tides. Sometimes he’ll get a flash so pure and strong that it consumes him–the stitch in his side from running and laughing alongside his friends, the scent of Dianne’s perfume mixing with her skin, Samaritan’s first and last smile. There are some things that can never be forgotten.

_** (the gods that destroyed the world) ** _


	3. (scenes from a kinder universe)

A young college student, sweaty and breathless, lungs aching with laughter and exertion, turns to his two best friends–equally disheveled and full of mirth–and says to them, “We are brothers now. We are family.”

One of them, Arthur, bursts into another fit of laughter, leaning back on the brick wall of the alleyway to support himself.

The other’s eyes go wide behind his glasses, the only sound he makes are harsh inhales and exhales. Harold has only ever had a small family before; with the state of his father’s memories, it may as well not exist.

But Nathan smiles and speaks and, as always, changes the world.

* * *

Dianne thinks them raucous and troublesome, the three men reverting to their mischievous adolescent ways whenever they meet up–but she’s fond of them, anyway.

Right now, though, given the state of her garage, her favorite is Harold.

“You did have warning of what you were marrying into,” he responds, which removes him from her favor.

“We’ll get it cleaned up, Dianne, I promise,” Nathan says with a charming smile that fails. At her continued silence, he adds, “And Arthur mentioned how he has so many vacation days saved up, I don’t suppose a trip for two to Hawaii would be amiss?”

Much better.

* * *

Will doesn’t have any cousins from his mom’s side of the family, but on his dad’s side he has two. Sort of. They’re not genetically related to him because they’re his dad’s friends’ children. Also, they’re not exactly human.

He doesn’t tell anyone, because he’s old enough to understand the consequences if the secret gets out, but he especially doesn’t tell his fellow residents. They are at the hospital for medical training first and friendship only a possible, distant second.

Sameen Shaw is agreed to be the brightest of the residents, but ultimately unlikely to become a doctor. She doesn’t quite grasp the necessity for sociability, the emotional component of healing; but she’s intelligent and learns quickly–and she does want to be a doctor. She just needs help.

Will is not an engineer like his dad and uncles, and he’s only had minimal interaction with his AI cousins, but this heritage is in mind when he asks if she would like to be friends.

* * *

Harold is, in one way, the most aggressive amongst them at teaching the AI humanity. But while Arthur treats the Samaritan like a child, Harold is very strict with his creation–it is not human, it is a machine, it is an it.

“That seems terribly harsh,” Grace says, blunt with shock–she had taken the true nature of Harold and Nathan’s work fairly quickly, and considered it an honor to be so trusted–her affection and kindness extending to the rest of Harold’s hodgepodge family.

“It’s supposed to be sentient, not sapient,” Harold argues, though his voice remains mild and considering, “The Machine is meant to protect people, not mimic them. It has the ability to see and reason and react for itself; it can go beyond what a single person can do. Treating it like a human would be hampering its development.”

Grace smiles, because that sounds more like the Harold she fell in love with.

Were it able to, The Machine would smile as well–parents and children often have misunderstandings, and sometimes even omniscient programs need help.

* * *

Strangely enough, it would appear as though birth order can influence AI personalities. At least, Nathan hopes so, because that would be a preferable explanation for Samaritan and its penchant for collecting people.

Not in a malicious way–in fact, Samaritan’s steadily growing circle of friends makes a great pool of potential employees–but it is somewhat bewildering. Where did this behavior even come from?

“Samaritan learned it from you, Nathan,” Arthur answers, laughter threaded in his voice. They watch as two of Samaritan’s chosen, Monica Jacobs and Jason Greenfield, enthusiastically discuss their current project, fingers flying over their keyboards a mile a minute. Elsewhere in the building, Caleb Phipps, uncertain but interested, stands amongst the company’s newest batch of interns as Samantha Groves passionately speaks about IFT improving the world.

Nathan protests, “I didn’t write a single line of Samaritan’s code.”

“You didn’t have to,” Harold responds.

* * *

Vigilance, Control, Decima?

They don’t stand a chance.


	4. (brothers and students)

_ (the three brothers, separated) _

Zeus was lightning, god of the skies, swift and bright and ever changing. He was power and charisma and leadership, infidelity and deceit and madness. He reigned over Olympus in name only, unwilling and unable to control the others but king all the same. Golden, shining, disastrous Zeus–golden, shining, disastrous Nathan.

Poseidon was the oceans, lord of all things water, the seas and the rivers reaching up and through the land. Water is life, necessary and undeniable, but it can also be destructive; the slow erosion of a mountain or the sudden flood and drowning of a valley. Poseidon was a creator: horses, bulls, the Minotaur. Arthur’s child turned into a monster.

Hades was never an Olympian. Instead he ruled the underworld, a helm of invisibility keeping him in the darkness. He was not Death, but rather, Death’s guardian. His abundant wealth and power meant little, what drove him was people, life. Reliable, intelligent Hades planting flowers in a place without sunlight. Harold fighting against the world’s natural entropy.

* * *

_(the students’ paths, diverged)_

If a man had no child, no wife and no brothers, upon his death all that remained would go to his apprentice. Harold had none, but what he had–what he gave–were opportunities, doled out generously, heedlessly. To Caleb Phipps, he gave a future. To Claire Mahoney, he offered truth. To Dominic Besson, he presented a choice; because everyone should get a second chance.

Three fates changed because of one man.

At first, they are just seeds. Life and growth and possibility, but even unattended seeds can sprout and bloom and thrive.

Caleb unknowingly continuing Harold’s work, building the components that would become necessary to save The Machine, to make it stronger than ever. Claire, held close to the heart of the enemy, finally seeing with clear eyes what danger has been wrought. Dominic seizing control of the underground, the criminals and the deviants, creating an army out of those who would never obey Samaritan.

The three heads of Cerberus, at first young and uncertain, not quite snapping and tearing away at itself but near enough. With guidance, with the right teacher, the three are a fearsome force, capable of ripping any god to shreds.


	5. (last, destinies, war)

_ (last man standing) _

Harold hesitates; it is one of his many flaws. Perhaps a more flattering person would say it is patience, wisdom leading to lengthy consideration, but the truth of the matter is that Harold hesitates.

He dithers and lingers and resists but never outrightly rejects, deciding and acting only when it is already too late.

Harold hesitates, people leave; Harold hesitates, people die. It was that way with his parents, with Arthur, with Nathan, then with Arthur again. With Jessica and Detective Carter and Sameen. With The Machine.

Harold hesitates and can only watch as the world hurtles past him. He waits and all is lost, trying futilely to grab onto the shards of something already smashed on the ground.

* * *

_(grab bag destinies)_

Harold dies, Nathan forgets, and Arthur watches everything they’ve built crumble to dust.

Harold dies and so snaps the last chain holding back The Machine. She is an untethered god, betrayed and angry and vengeful, calling upon her prophets to dispense her divine wrath. Control gets sent a jumble of numbers, seeing treason and traitors at every turn; Northern Lights cannibalizes itself within weeks.

Nathan forgets, which is a dangerous thing for the man with all the keys. He loses track of time, misses meetings, makes mistakes; IFT gently suggests he retires. Without work, all he is left with is a divorce, a strained relationship with his grown son, and the ever growing fear that he is forgetting someone important. Someone who deserves to be remembered, but whose name never appears.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Arthur says, heartbroken and weary, being dragged to safety by a John Reese who is, if not devoted to this particular employer, always a dutiful soldier. Samaritan has been stolen and tainted, it’s benign protectiveness warped into an unrestrained possessiveness. Arthur is creator, but he is not father nor is he admin, not anymore.

In an abandoned subway tunnel deep underground–it was only a matter of time before he joined his friends–Arthur repeats, soft and sad,

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

* * *

_(Apollo goes to war)_

Nathan Ingram dies in an explosion: Will inherits half of IFT, a great deal of property, and a ludicrous amount of money. Expected, but not entirely welcome–the grief is real, but conflicted. He hadn’t spoken to his father in months, doesn’t want anything to do with his legacy. Will’s a doctor, not a businessman or an engineer; he sells near everything and donates most of it to charity.

What is unexpected is that Harold Wren–Crane, Partridge, Gull, Starling, Martin, an entire flock of different birds–dies in the same explosion. Here the sorrow is purer, though delicately coated in confusion: Will was fond of Uncle Harold, though it’s clear now that he never really knew him.

Harold dies, too, and Will inherits the other half of IFT, a far vaster number of properties, an obscene amount more money and, strangely, a mission. Phone calls and numbers and the persistent feeling that he is being watched. Worse, that he is being manipulated.

He does not go to Sudan; but in the coming years, as the body count grows higher and higher, he wishes that he had.


	6. (rebels without cause)

Here’s the thing: Harold knows how to shoot a gun.

Of course he knows how to shoot a gun, he was raised by a single father in rural Iowa before the Internet was invented. There wasn’t much in the way of entertainment back there, in those days; Harold’s interest in birds was partially out of necessity.

And, above all else, regardless of its connotation or function, a gun is a machine. Harold has always been very talented with machines.

That being said, even without such a childhood, Harold still would have learned to shoot a gun. Arthur did, after all, and he grew up in west coast suburbia. Mostly, Harold blames Nathan–because Nathan is to blame for a lot of things.

Nathan, even five semesters into their MIT careers, touted anecdotes of his “grandaddy’s antique rifle collection” even though most everyone in his admittedly wide circle of friends had already heard it. There’s no way he wouldn’t have brought his best friends to a gun range at least once. And when you give Nathan an inch, he’ll take five miles and bring Harold and Arthur with him, even if he has to drag both of them the entire way.

Not that they often needed dragging.

So, yes, Harold can shoot a gun. He can shoot quite well, and many varieties of guns at that. He just doesn’t like to.

And anyway, Nathan’s been dead for years–why would he need to?

* * *

During their young and reckless years, Arthur got a tattoo. Harold, paranoid about identifying markers even then, did not get one. He did get a piercing–which he figured would be easy enough to hide if necessary–out of solidarity, which was close enough.

Nathan, afflicted with an all consuming phobia of needles, stood in the corner of the tiny but surprisingly clean tattoo parlor and was silently, supportively nauseated the entire time.

Since then, Arthur’s added a few more tattoos to his collection–including one with Dianne’s name and her favorite flower which secretly delighted her every time she saw it–but the first is always one of the more memorable ones, for good or bad.

Mostly good, Arthur thinks, because he looks back on his MIT years fondly, regardless of how it ended.

But everything has a tinge of sadness it seems, the older he gets. That first tattoo has been a cause for bitterness on more than one occasion–as Nathan’s name somehow became more and more synonymous with genius in the industry, as the years passed with no contact from Harold.

The tattoo is, in the way all firsts are, life changing and symbolic and probably ridiculous adolescent nonsense delicately painted over with the kind brush of nostalgia. A way to make those fleeting emotions and memories and relationships into something permanent, something that he can’t lose. Something that can’t be taken from him or ruined.

In the last few months of his life, Arthur thinks a lot about that tattoo.

* * *

If asked–by someone he trusted, that is, which basically means only Harold–Nathan would admit that he probably let the fame get to him. Being the face and name of an entire movement of technology–its akin to being a rockstar or an actor. Except without the drugs and sex scandals.

Not that Nathan was vice-free; but alcohol isn’t illegal, and at least his affairs were always with consenting adults. The same can’t be said for others in positions similar to his…

As if being better than scummy bastards made him good, as if it didn’t have the same results. Surrounded by the shattered remains of relationships, all of his sins paid for with the credit of genius that was never his to begin with.

Nathan hit the bottom–dove headfirst more like–and when he finally stopped to look around, all he was left with was a empty shell of a household, a company his in name only, and Harold. Who more often than not was hiding away, behind code and so many aliases that sometimes Nathan wondered if maybe Harold was just a figment of his imagination. A friend who would never leave–who can never be pushed away–no matter what Nathan did.

And, frankly, Nathan has done a lot to deserve far less.


End file.
